


Luck of the Devil

by bellygunnr



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Pre-Canon, i took some liberties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26189260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellygunnr/pseuds/bellygunnr
Summary: Eli Vance has been a high priority target for a long time. Alyx Vance can do anything.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Luck of the Devil

You are 16. It’s midday in late summer and the whole city is melting underneath another record heatwave. You’re gripping a handful of faded playing cards, the backs stamped with the colorful insignia of ‘Uno,’ many of them doctored up back to just shy of their former glory. Across from you, Barney sits, his smile lazy but shoulders tense, eyes sharp as he sets down another Draw Four. Thankfully, it’s not for you but the other rebel sitting beside you, a young woman named Arlene. She shoves Barney’s shoulder, swearing in a foreign language.

“How is it you get so many of those every round?” Arlene says with exasperation, filling her hand with the spare cards.

“Luck of the Devil,” Barney jokes, making a sign with his hands. “Your go, Alyx. What’s it gonna be?”

“Wild card,” you say. “Blue.”

You flick the card out onto the pile, eyes glued to Barney’s expression, picking it apart for any tells. He’s got a couple, as much as he tries to deny them, as good as he’s gotten at obscuring them. His lip juts out as he bites into it, staring down at the wild card like it physically harmed him. With how many times he’s fixed up this deck, you wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

Then he smiles. With a flourish, he flicks a card out, a bright blue 7. The stylized number is stained by some fluid or another-- probably motor oil.

“Uno,” he says, brandishing his last card close to his chest.

You roll your eyes while Arlene shoves him again, chattering in words you don’t understand. Polish, if you were to hazard a guess. Barney responds in kind, then tells her to get a move on and play. She does, playing a yellow 7.

You have no yellow cards. You are endlessly frustrated by this game.

“You know, we should recount this deck sometime,” you start, rifling through your crowded hand. “Because try as I might, I never have any goddamn yellows.”

Or any other colors! Affronted, you start drawing from the pile, sighing with relief when you pull up a red 7. Defeated, you drop it, leaning back to face the inevitable.

“Language,” Barney chuckles.

The card he places down is a Draw Four. You make a noise somewhere between a growl and a huff before scooping up all the cards and hurriedly mixing them back up into a deck. From the corner of your eye, you watch Arlene, noting the comfortable camaraderie between she and Barney. This is your first time meeting her, but intuition says that Barney has known her for months. Maybe even years. It’s impossible to truly tell, of course.

But things like that matter. Now, more than ever.

You’re about to start passing cards back out when Barney jumps, a piercing long tone emitting from his heavy, bulky armour. He moves like he’s been shocked, grabbing up his cowl and mask from the warehouse floor. Indistinct Combine chatter is heard, muffled and disjointed, from the radio within.

“I’ll see y’all around,” Barney says hurriedly. “I’ve gotta get goin’.”

And before you can say anything, he’s gone, shoulder clipping the door frame as someone else bursts inside, wild-eyed and desperate.

“The Combine’s got Eli! Bloody hell, they’ve gone and kidnapped Eli right from under our noses!” the man shouts, and you recognize them as Russell.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Arlene demands, jumping to her feet.

Russell skitters to a stop in front of you. He digs in his jacket, fishing out a long tube that he drops into your hands.

“I’m sayin’-- I’m saying that they got Eli! Cubbage is leading his squad out to go get him back. We lost’em by that big hotel in town, oh, what was it called--”

“The Northern Star?” You spit at him.

“That-- that’s right! Ooh, man, Alyx, I really am so sorry, we’re working as hard as we can to get him back,” Russell starts, babbling as he does when he’s anxious.

“I’ll get him back. I know the route, and I bet I know where they’re taking him,” you say, stomping your foot.

You scowl at the incredulous looks Arlene and Russell aim at you. Wordlessly, you scoop up your backpack, pausing long enough to withdraw a pair of gloves-- fingerless accessories full of wires and metal, a prototype device. It’d be invaluable in getting through the city fast.

“Oh, no you don’t, we can’t have both Vances out and about-- what if you get captured by the Combine too, young lady?” Russell says, distressed. “Alyx, you get back here! Alyx! No, Arlene, I think I have an idea…”

That’s the last thing you hear as you dash out of the concrete warehouse. You know, from experience, that Russell won’t leave you hanging. But you have no time to spare for whatever idea he was going to concoct now.

* * *

The heat is oppressive, but the city crawls despite it. The air is alive with manhacks that fill the space between buildings and buzz through the sky, testimony to the Combine activity still too far away from you. You offer cheeky waves to Metrocops on the move or on post, always slipping out of view before they can haul you in for crowd control. You try not to think too hard about the faint crackles of stun sticks.

It’s less hot in the underground. A lot of the buildings here dipped below the earth, meaning they escaped the elements, but you still sweated like a dog running through them. You had no time to waste. The gloves hummed as you used them liberally, pulling obstacles out of your path. At certain points, you aimed at the wall, the difference in mass sending you into the air. You clambered up the ladder or whatever fixtures with ease, rolling seamlessly back outside. You linger in shadowy overhangs, a reprieve to check your surroundings.

So far, so good. Manhacks still buzzed incessantly, and the crackle of CP radios mimicked summertime locusts, but you hadn’t been noticed yet. Barney would be proud, you think. Your dad would be proud. You’ve gotten pretty good at this sneaking around, busting Combine business. Then again, if you weren’t…

The rooftop is finally clear of Manhack shadows. You lunge out from hiding, scrambling over stone, concrete, and brick, bridging the gap between buildings. Already, you’re starting to see signs of errant activity-- gunfire, so familiar, echoes in confusing reports, and striders carrying officers are removing themselves from the path. You clamber up onto a higher rooftop, ducking under a dusty ventilation duct.

Your heart jumps out of your chest as the face of a Manhack fills your only escape route. You reach for a baton strapped to your leg, but then the drone starts to speak, scratchy, grainy--

“Alyx! Alyx, it’s just me! God, you’re hard to track. Are you alright? You listenin’?”

Russell. You breathe a sigh of relief, hand over your chest.

“I’m okay! Jeez, coulda given me more warning, Russell. Got any news?” You ask, sitting up straight. “I’m close to the hotel, but have you--?”

Your words are drowned out by two concussive blasts. Nearby, if the vibrations through your teeth is anything to go by.

“That’s our cue, I’m afraid! Just follow me. We can walk and talk!” Russell says, voice rough through the drone.

It flies off, jerky and a bit uneven, before you can say anything. You scramble after it, eyes flicking desperately for the closest available purchase. It’s a six foot drop to a lower level that you take with no hesitation.

“So Arlene and Griggs are goin’-- did you know Griggs has a boyfriend? Very brave for these times, anyway-- they’re going to go backup Cubbage. Apparently, CP is moving Eli solo in one of those big crawlers, but they’re not gonna know what--"

Russell’s voice cuts out at times, but the rush of wind in your ears and the building sounds of gunfire and combat also serve to obscure him. You’re uncomfortably uninformed as you chase after his Manhack, but at least he’s helping you find travel points, letting you free up some of your conscious thought.

There’s smoke pouring from one end of the city. You and Russell are rapidly drawing closer to it, when the Manhack suddenly dives, dipping into a narrow alley between two squat structures. You skitter to a halt, glaring down at the machine.

“And how am I supposed to get down there?” You demand, fingers gripping the edge.

“You’re not going to. Look, Alyx, I’m gonna take this Manhack and drive it into the cab’s window. Then, then, you’ll use the Russells to unlock the hatch on the back! It’s fool-proof! Guaranteed success!” Russel calls up, wiggling his drone. “Get ready! They’re coming!”

You frown, taking a second to get your bearings. Now that you’re no longer in motion, you can hear more than just wind and fighting-- the bubbling of an overtaxed engine is coming from the left, louder for all the narrow streets. You flex your hands, noting the stinging pain that comes from overheated metal. The Russells don’t have much left in them.

“How big is the car?” You ask, fidgeting with your gloves.

“That big!”

The car bursts out from the street corner. It’s a boxy, squat thing that rocks back and forth on its wheels, swerving every now and again to avoid a massive pothole. It rides low to the ground. Not a whole lot of clearance. Too much distance between the Russells and the doors, that’s for sure. You watch it trundle closer.

Within seconds, it’s passing by the alley, and Russell’s Manhack is out like a shot. Glass shatters unceremoniously, flashing in the hot sun. The vehicle careens, screeching and groaning. It clips a street crater and bounces violently.

You shrink back, watching the mechanical carnage, feeling your courage flag and mettle flail. The truck has slid to a stop, nose pointed in the direction from whence it came, tires spinning uselessly in the air. You observe more than watch Metrocops crawl out from the woodwork, making to surge the vehicle and re-secure its cargo (your father!), but the first wave is shot down.

The street echoes with lingering small arms fire and the dying beep of Combine.

Through the chaos, you see the back of the truck pop open.

You’re jumping into the street before you can fully comprehend what you’re doing.

* * *

It’s late by the time you and your father reach somewhere safe. Your muscles are aching and your body burns with dehydration and hunger, but you can’t stop yet, your father slung over your shoulders. He’s fallen quiet, save for ragged breathing. A quick glance tells you that blood is already starting to seep past the bandages around his head. He leans against you as you finally stop walking, panting under his weight.

The air is thick with the stink of stagnant water and barnacle residue. Neither of you have weapons, so progress has been slow, but more walls have started to bare the Lambda symbol. You’re close to some safe checkpoint or another. It was just a matter of getting there.

But first, a breather. You’ve been moving for well over seven hours, the majority of that in the summer heat. You blindly dig through your backpack for the bundle of emergency rations you always stow away.

Beside you, your father’s breathing picks up. It hitches and stutters a little before he coughs.

“I’ll admit, Alyx, I didn’t realize… just how resourceful you’ve become, until today,” Dad breathes. He smiles up at you, a bit wry. “I am very proud of you. But it scared the daylights outta me seein’ you in the streets like that!”

“Sorry,” you murmur. You don’t have the energy to say anything else, occupied by unraveling two ration bars. You give the freshest looking one to your father.

He takes it, nibbling on the corner.

“Now, I bet we’re near the railroad checkpoint. Can you smell the surface?”

You pull off a chunk of food, chewing on it slowly. You take a few experimental sniffs with your nose.

“No,” you say. “Just barnacles.”

The shrill blast of a train horn rends the air.

You look at your dad, eyebrows raised.

“Just take two lefts once we start moving again,” he says, smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> con-crit welcome here. this is an experimental fic trying to figure out Alyx Vance and my personal perception of rebel workings


End file.
